


Can't Buy Your Way Out Of This One

by CarrieMaxwell



Series: The Hogwart Drabbler: short stories no one asked for [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Forced Marriage, Foul Language, POV Draco Malfoy, Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter), ambiguous ending, dragged kicking and screaming, my father will hear of this, unhappily married, use of Unforgivable spells, wizards' duel, would rather die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:15:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29021061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarrieMaxwell/pseuds/CarrieMaxwell
Summary: A forced marriage fic that ends most unexpectedly, for Draco.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Series: The Hogwart Drabbler: short stories no one asked for [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1922026
Comments: 14
Kudos: 33





	Can't Buy Your Way Out Of This One

**Author's Note:**

> Everybody loves a good Forced Marriage trope where everything eventually works out in the end, right?
> 
> Well what if the Ministry really fucked it up this time by pairing the two most incompatible compatible people together with enough hatred between them to reduce London to ashes?
> 
> Let's just say, this is the shortest marriage in Wizarding History.
> 
> From Draco's point of view.

It was preposterous.

Utterly ridiculous.

Absolute madness.

It was if they’d forgotten just whom they were dealing with.

As if the Malfoy name didn’t hold any weight or authority.

He of all the poor sods wrangled into this sham of a Marriage Law decree should’ve been able to grease some already greasy palms with enough galleons to sink a ship and get out of it. Or at least pick a far more accommodating witch.

Because of course it just had to be Her.

Everyone’s fucking favorite witch with a capitol B.

And how every one of them thought he’d reached the pinnacle of the selection when he’d been given the results showing she was his most compatible match.

He wondered which drunken cunt pulled her name out of a hat and said ‘yep, that’s the one for Malfoy!’

He’d have their wand shoved where the sun didn’t shine.

Hell, he’d take his own wand up the arse if it meant he didn’t have to be settled with her, not that the visual imagery did him any favors in trying to persuade these troglodytes that what they were doing was essentially signing his death certificate. He flat out told them he would strangle her with his bare hands the first chance he got. They laughed like he was making a joke.

They were the ones that were a joke.

A joke of a wizard and a government.

A failure in both.

She’d done her fair share of screeching and protesting and listing all the ways her rights were being violated and so on and so forth, giving him a headache as he stood there with clenched fists and a set jaw, having used the last of his diplomatic strategies and moved onto the threats. Oh by Merlin’s Beard his father would hear of it, all the way in his little cold cell in Azkaban, but so would the rest of Wizarding Britain and the World if he put up enough fuss.

No amount of gold he offered even craned a brow in his direction, and only received dismissive snorts from his bride-to-be as she rolled her eyes and muttered ‘figures’ as she were Holier-than-thou because she didn’t have the oldest way to influence people at her disposal.

He offered to take up marriage with Pansy Fucking Parkinson if it would put an end to this. They’d had their stupid youthful fun with each other and they’d had their falling out but by Merlin even the pug-nose witch had a better pedigree than some fucking Mudblood twat from No-Name parents.

But they were doing away with the pureblood ideology, and henceforth no more pureblood matches between the Sacred Twenty Eight. He couldn’t even pick the ginger haired Weaselette if he wanted. Not that it mattered that she was Saint Fucking Pothead’s girl.

He threw out names of every half-blood girl he knew, claiming he’d be a better match for any of them. And none of their families would refuse the name Malfoy being intergraded into their own. Then the little bitch had to scoff and set his blood boiling.

Oh they thought she was doing him a favor? Her good name?

Her fucking precious Order of Merlin?

Her being the “Brightest Witch of Their Age”?

Her being some bloody do-gooding War Heroine?

Her testifying on his behalf after the war? More spit to shine her shoes with. She couldn’t help but walk around like she was Godric’s Heir bestowing goodness wherever she saw fit. The only reason he didn’t identify Potter when they were dragged to the manor was because he just wanted Voldemort dead and his life to go back to normal. He was sick of it all, being subjected to the horrors of bloodshed and his home overrun by ruffians.

And now they wanted him to share his home with her.

Share his name with her.

Share his bed with her.

He shuddered.

There was no way he’d get it up for the likes of her. Were they even looking at the Bog Wench and her untamed wild mass of hair? What an embarrassment to have to stand next to! For public events, for this farce of a wedding ceremony, for fucking portraits to hang in his home. The indignation of it all.

So she thrashed like a spoiled child having a tantrum while he beat a fist into the desk of the minister, gesturing with his other arm at the crude behavior of this uncouth and coarse peasant that he was somehow supposed to be proud to have on his arm and demanded the test be redone, that the results must be wrong somehow. She was crying and slapping now, reduced to pathetic muggle means now that she’d been disarmed but he knew the witch wasn’t afraid to throw her hands.

He even offered to serve more time in Azkaban, loathe as he was to return to that freezing hellhole of a prison. Better a cold cage in the middle of the North Sea than with THAT. For Merlin’s sake they were ruining his bloodline! Even without a pureblood name, she was hideous! At least give him a witch with a decent pair of tits and a nice face, regardless of her blood status. He didn’t need an intelligent cow to bicker at the dinner table with every night. If they wanted fucking half-bloods then give him something fuckable to produce them with.

When she suggested allowing herself to be obliviated it felt like Christmas. Yes, take the witch outside and zap her a good one and dump her off in Muggle London, so long and farewell! He’d even donate a sack of gold to see her off so she could live her new life, after all, it would be the proper thing to do after her charitable act.

He was told to grow up and act like a man.

A man. Really? That’s the best you can say to this? I am acting like a man. A man trying to save what shred of decency he has left before the Merlin-forsaken government decides to strip him of all possessions and titles. Who do I have to fight here in order to be heard?

What kind of fucking government was this, forcing a generation of wizards who'd seen war and death far too young and now thought if they threw a pair of mentally and physically scarred-because now he’d have to look at that one particular scar and see it every fucking day-Hogwarts alumni together that they could just somehow miraculously overcome all their differences and come together for “the greater good”?

What a laugh.

He’d laugh if it wasn’t the exact scenario he was currently thrust into. Just like he’d been for the past few years of his life. No choices whatsoever. Told that he had to repair the Vanishing Cabinet or else. Kill Dumbledore or else. Identify Potter or else. And now it was marry Hermione Fucking Granger or else. Actually, there was no else. Or it would’ve been the route he’d gladly taken. But no, once again, stripped of his rights-okay maybe the cow was onto something about that one-and expected to fall in line.

All the other witches and wizards of their age had been matched up and had their ceremonies. Some were positively beaming with disgusting joy, practically radiating sunshine through their pores. Others looked apprehensive, curious and even nervous but they were still behaving like good little children like they’d earn House points if they stood still and quiet and held hands.

He didn’t have a choice in any of it.

The ring came from his own family vault, an heirloom only worthy of a pureblood wife. It should never have touched her skin. It didn’t suit her at all. It was worth more than what her pathetic little muggle house cost more than likely. She didn’t make it easy for him either, having being held in place by two bloodied Aurors who damn well deserved a pay raise after this. He grit his teeth so hard he thought he might chip a tooth but the spell cast over the two of them compelled them to agree to vows neither had any intention of following.

He could see it in her eyes as much as he could feel it. She hated him in the same regard that he did for her. Perhaps it was that sheer amount of antagonism between them that was somehow mistaken for sexual tension but as long as he was concerned she could drop dead in the middle of the atrium and leave him the happiest widower Wizarding Britain had ever seen, gladly paying for a headstone as long as it read that the bitch was dead.

It all felt so lackluster. All his life he’d been brought up to know exactly what he wanted in life and that he was going to get it. He was rich, handsome, and charming. He could have his pick. He could a woman already spoken for. He could have twins if he wanted. And now that the war was over he had been gladly strolling through the garden of wizarding London, plucking any flower in sight, living life to the fullest. But cruel reality was a nightmare by comparison with this queue of classmates being bound to each other and then told to jog on like they didn’t just have their arse slapped and chained to another.

His friends were sympathetic to say the least. She hugged and cried all over hers and he stood with his, grumbling under his breath that they’d be lucky if they didn’t burn the manor down within the first week. Not that he couldn’t have it easily repaired in expert time. His friends with their lucky brides began to Floo out, having designated a home to which they both could agree to and some of which who couldn’t wait to start their honeymoon.

Lucky fucking bastards.

It wasn’t even an argument; they would be going to Malfoy Manor. He was surprised she didn’t protest but then again she did possess a brain. Obviously it made sense with a grand ancestral home of its size and splendor, of the social obligations that came with his name and the events hosted there annually. Like her pathetic little flat or rathole she’d been living in before this could even accommodate a fraction of his furniture, let alone books-not counting the library-and even his wardrobe.

He huffed in disgust when they arrived and the way her eyes slanted and her nose wrinkled like she was the one disgusted by all this opulence. She clearly did not know fine taste such as this, having been in the gaudy Gryffindor tower for six years. Well, there’d be no more crimson and gold here and she’d better get used to it. This was HIS home and he’d be dammed if the Golden Girl couldn’t handle the décor palette of his ancestors.

Speaking of….

They were letting their opinions be heard-regardless that he didn’t have a choice in the matter, he certainly wouldn’t have brought her home if he did-and despite what he had to say none would shut up long enough to even hear him.

Reaching the threshold of his patience he extracted his wand and started blasting spells at the portraits, some being silenced, other just plain old burned-having never really cared for them anyways.

When he turned around he was met with a witch already poised to duel, the same thought crossing her mind as it did his:

The only way out of this marriage was Death.

Not a second too soon he was throwing shields and curses-both magically and linguistically-as she was hell-bent on destroying everything in sight, perhaps believing if she looked like the poor innocent victim that the Ministry would annul their marriage and throw him in Azkaban.

No, he wouldn’t let that happen. He’d kill the bitch, just like he promised he would. He was a Malfoy after all. And Malfoy’s kept their word.

“Avada Kedavara!”

**Author's Note:**

> companion piece to: Til Death Do Us Part


End file.
